


People Underestimate the Value of a Good Deputy

by raedbard



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Epistolary, M/M, Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unsent letter from the Seaborn files: being Toby Ziegler's deputy has its own rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Underestimate the Value of a Good Deputy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 round of kink_bingo. Kink in question was 'service.' (I'm not sure I've done the kink itself any kind of justice but I do think that Sam is its perfect exponent, at least as far as Toby goes, anyway. *g*)
> 
> Content includes: epistolary format, irony-laced attempts at comedy. Set in early S2, before Josh comes back to work post-Rosslyn.

_[This document found stuffed in the back of a drawer in Sam Seaborn's old apartment and thus mysteriously not subjected to the clinical precision of S. Seaborn's filing system. Meaning that he had wanted to hide it from someone. Meaning, mostly likely, me. Which of course meant taking the opportunity to read it while Sam was down in the basement agonising over which of his books he could live without and putting his back out trying to life heavy boxes. There may have been a thud and a scream just now, but I really wasn't listening very carefully._

And yes, Josh (if this should ever reach your tender eyes) Sam and I have been ~~seeing each other~~ ~~involved~~ irritating each other on a personal as well as a professional level for that long. But close your mouth up, okay? You look like a moron.

\-- This note added by T. Ziegler, very amused and only very mildly offended. 14th March, 2011, New York, NY.]

*

Dear Josh,

You asked me to write. So here I am, writing. I don't know why the hell you can't just pick up the phone and yell and generally monopolise everyone's time the way you usually do, but I guess the doctors know what they're doing. You shouldn't be getting all excited. (So why am I keeping you up on all the White House gossip? Wouldn't Donna be better at this? Seriously, Josh.)

Also, wouldn't the phone be easier? I mean, I do live only six blocks over, so by the time I've written this, mailed it, and waited for it actually make its way to you and for you to write some kind of answer -- scrawled in crayon on the back of a cereal packet, I bet -- two weeks will have, yanno, passed. And you'll be back at work and all this will be pointless and I won't be able to look you in the face. (You'll see why.)

Maybe I'll just write this as if I was talking to you on the phone. Assuming I could get in a word edgewise.

Okay. A proper letter. What to write about? [Pause for thinking time.] &lt; \-- stage directions, what d'you think?)

The Diary of Sam Seaborn, aged 33. His life as a slave to his boss.

I'm thinking of using that as a title for my memoirs. Good, huh? Assuming I don't die before I get a chance to write them. In the meantime they'll have to do as your entertainment. Last chance to decide you'd rather watch some reruns and order pizza? No? Okay. Saddle up.

It's actually not all that bad. Being Toby's slave. In fact, I kinda enjoy it. A lot. I'll begin at the end and tell you that it all culminated in a really amazing fuck. (I'm anticipating any jokes you can make and censoring them in advance. I know it's just because you're jealous.) But maybe you'd like a bit of preamble first? (I'm guessing what you'd really like is not to hear this story at all, but nothing doing there, my friend. You asked, and so you shall receive. All part of the service.) So, preamble. Coming up.

It was one of the President's high blood pressure days. Approval ratings post-Rosslyn notwithstanding he had this big thing to do (on which I will not be elaborating because I don't want to be called into your doctor's office and given a stern talking to because you burst a vein in your temple worrying about something that is, at this moment, actually none of your business) -- the President had this big thing to do. Very important. 'DO NOT FUCK THIS UP' was what Leo wrote on top of the memo. (Well, he didn't. But you could sense that he had wanted to.) And, for reasons that are probably obvious, Toby was under strict instructions not to, you know, decide to take the President to task on his stance on the Middle East, his appeasement of Hollywood rich kids, or what his preference in breakfast cereal meant for the nation. Basically Leo was pretty clear that he wanted Toby removed from the vicinity. If possible shipped to Manitoba in a packing crate. And who was in charge of keeping him quiet and generally 500 yards from the President at all times? You guessed it.

At this point you're already thinking that maybe you can see right through my feeble attempt at reverse psychology and was, instead of wondering whether I should run away to Canada myself and embrace a new life as an outdoorsman, getting pretty excited at the prospect of being Toby's babysitter for the day. (You're not the only one who's transparent, man.)

Well, I guess you're right. For one thing, it meant a day with Toby. A full day. Nothing else to do, in a manner of speaking, but him. (Except work but, you know, we do that all the time anyway. It's at least two-thirds recreation at this point.) And, more than that, it meant having Toby to myself for a full day. I don't expect you to understand the attraction of that, but for me it's quite profound. (Stop laughing, Josh. Do I mock you when you do stupid things to impress women? Okay, maybe I do. But it's done with love.) Anyway. Nothing to do but keep Toby occupied. One of those days where I run bets with myself on how long it'll take me to make him laugh (or at least smile, in a way that doesn't mean he's about to throw something at me), or get him to do something he insists he doesn't want to do but actually really does. Or surprise him with some really good whiskey that I've been holding back. Or take him to that pie place he loves. (Pie &lt; \-- the way to Toby's heart, no question. I'd ask Andy to countersign but the idea of her asking questions about the relevance of that knowledge to me is terrifying.)

So. One day where I get Toby to myself. Officially. By governmental decree, as it were. Since I'd got a few days notice (Leo called me to his office and told me he had a job for me that was more important for my future career than anything I'd ever done before, thanks Leo), I'd drawn up a schedule, copied below for your edification/amusement/mortification/use as blackmail against me (or Toby) in the future.

SCHEDULE  
09.16.2000.  
Operation Distract Toby Day.

05.30: Get up before he does. If staying over that night, make/go out and get coffee and pastries; if not staying over, be there at 6 with fresh coffee and pastries. Don't ring the bell. You have a key, you idiot.

06.15: Run him a bath. (He won't take it, but run it anyway. While he's busy protesting maybe pick out a shirt/tie/jacket combination that actually suits him? Thinking the green shirt and the dark orange tie. Since he knows perfectly well that the green shirt makes me really want to do things to him that need not be detailed in this schedule but which would set the tone for the day nicely.

06.30: Insist on the bath. Gracefully accept that he's going to take a shower whether I like it or not. Offer to scrub his back/other hard-to-reach areas. Remember not to offer to wash his hair. Blowjob? Or too early? Just touching? Like a massage? Further thought/appropriate action on the day required.

07.00: Get to the office. Let him get settled, but not too settled. Get more coffee. Get the papers. Liaise with C.J./Ginger/Leo and confirm plans re. leaving the building for the duration. **T-Minus 3 hours to the President's Big Thing**

7.30 to 9.30: Go through the papers. Work out what we have to take with us and what we're definitely leaving behind. Pack up the laptops. Give him a few drafts of the upcoming speeches to keep him occupied. More coffee. Confirm the reservations. Check the times for the thing.

9.30: GET TOBY OUT OF THE BUILDING.

9.35 to 10.00: If still in the West Wing, duck into a cupboard or something. Basement is good for this. If out of the building, go for breakfast.

10.00 to 11.00: Breakfast. That little diner he likes. Coffee, juice, eggs, waffles, pancakes, toast, bacon, the whole nine. Probably no difficulty actually getting him to eat it.

11.00 to 12.00: Walk around the District. Just walk and talk. Get some ideas going. Get him excited about something. Be a good deputy.

13.00 to 15.00: Lunch. I have this fantasy that we could go somewhere that I could reasonably feed him oysters and let him suck my fingers, but I think CNN would probably have something to say about that. And then the President would. So I thought the Italian place in Georgetown where they do the linguine he's been raving about for the last six months. Plenty of that. Wine. More talking.

15.00 to 19.00: The movies. The independent place downtown. They're having a Bogart marathon and, although he would never admit as much to anyone, there is a soft spot there. And even if he continues to deny it, we can always make out in the back row.

19.00 to 20.00: Coffee someplace quiet where he can compare the glories of old Hollywood to the degraded product we have today and I can agree, with examples.

20.00 to 23.00? (+/- the fate of the Yankees): Home. TV. Baseball. Beer. Chips. Cigars for if they win. Sexual favours for if they don't. (And if they do.)

23.00 onwards: Liquor. Bed. Sex. Not necessarily in that order. But must include getting him drunk enough to agree to a couple of things I have lined up that I want to try that I think he'll like. Involving his dick, so really, he won't have to be too drunk.

So, there you have it.

And, yes, before you ask, we were already sleeping together. Hence the key to his apartment. And all the sex. And to answer your next question, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to have to deal with my best friend's brain aneurysm and incipient nervous breakdown. You're really happier without this knowledge, Josh. And so is everyone else. Also Toby made me promise.

And to further anticipate: no, of course it didn't go to schedule. Toby being Toby, and really, you know, crafty, he pretty much knew what was coming and did his best to block me at every turn -- but in that way that makes it clear that he's screwing with me because he's enjoying it, rather than because he's actually averse to any of the things I was trying to do for him? You know Toby. After all, he knew the President's schedule as well as anyone. But there was definitely some prior thought involved. I mean, he was up at five that day and I was so tired that I slept right through and didn't wake up until he wafted some fresh coffee under my nose and told me to get the hell out of bed and come and have a shower. (Yes, we did have sex in the shower. You wouldn't think it, but I suspect that he's a morning person.) And when we got to the office he got all the papers first and pretended that he'd lost his laptop and kept me talking for forty minutes about one paragraph in one of my drafts. He was fucking with me, basically. It's more fun for him that way. And since his fun was the whole object of the day.

Anyway, he calmed down once we got as far as breakfast. Bacon and waffles have a tranquillising effect.

But that's not the point.

The point is that it was a great day.

It's weird, you know, that I get that much of a kick out of this stuff, out of looking after him, I guess. But I do. Trying to get him to smile, or laugh. (Try to tell me that one of Toby's real belly laughs isn't worth the effort, Josh.) The look he gets on his face when he's had a really good meal. The look that makes me want to rub his stomach and curl up next to him and let him stroke my hair.

I know you're vomiting in a corner now, and part of me doesn't blame you, but hear me out, okay? You know that feeling you get when the President shakes your hand and tells you you've done a good job? It's like that. Only better.

He doesn't do anything. He doesn't tell me I'm invaluable or say, "Sam, what would I do without you?" and that's fine, because it wouldn't be Toby without that sullenness, without that refusal to admit that you're having fun unless it's at someone else's (i.e., my) expense. And if it wasn't Toby I was trying to cheer up or whatever, the times that I do get him to smile, the times that he lets me touch him -- just to rub his shoulders, Josh, seriously man, you really need to get out of your apartment soon -- or light his cigar for him or run him a bath or make him something to eat that he likes, they wouldn't mean as much. Do you see?

I know what you're thinking, and what you're thinking is that I'm incredibly stupid. That this whole thing is incredibly stupid. You'd think he's using me -- just extending the relationship we have at work into our personal lives, making use of me, like he does in the office; using me to fetch and carry and be his go-to person for rants and rages and general polemics and jeremiads on the state of the world generally and the human condition in particular, and, of course, for someone to throw things at when things get really tough. And you think I don't like that, or, worse, you think I'm too weak to stop it, and you think it's pathetic that I don't tell him where to get off, because you think that I'm like a thirteen year old with a crush. And maybe I am. But it's not just that -- just me following around, begging for scraps. I love being with him. I love helping him. I love feeling useful, particularly after a day getting exactly one step backward from nowhere at work. And I buck up against his crap sometimes, but it's really just a game. This game where he's the boss, the guy in charge, the guy who knows everything. And I'm just the rookie, and I'm an idiot, but he puts up with me, and maybe he's even kinda proud of me, in his way. It's a game, like this is all a game, but if I make his day a little better, and suddenly it's worth it. I'm worth it. You forget -- we both do, everyone does, maybe -- what a rare feeling that is, and what a rush it gives you. To make one other person happy, contented. To make Toby Ziegler smile.

Which is why I'm not going to send this letter. I'll call you instead. Tell you about Operation Distract Toby but without the context. Stick to the remarks he made about the Orioles line-up. Because you wouldn't understand, Josh. And that's okay. I meant what I said about the brain aneurysm. You can find this letter after I'm gone -- a victim of patented Ziegler brand rage -- in a Dickensian scene full of pathos and the reveal of long-held secrets. Then you can laugh, I won't mind.

Love,

\-- Sam


End file.
